The next morning Harry woke up to a large, haughtly looking owl pecking him sharply on the nose. He let out a startled cry and searched for his glasses, blinking and wondering how the bird had got in.

The satisfied look on it’s face and the jagged tear in the top of his curtains answered that.

It pecked him again, this time on the wrist, and Harry noticed the roll of parchment secured on it’s ankle. Harry blinked again. He knew the custom, of course—seeing Malfoy’s eagle owl preen at the breakfast table had cemented the idea firmly in his head—but he couldn’t think of anyone who would send him a letter. The only friends he had ever had were at Hogwarts already.

Maybe it was the Dursleys, he though fleetingly, but that thought passed after he realized the sheer absurdity of it. The Dursleys, use something so blatantly magical and abnormal? Not a chance. Besides, Aunt Petunia was terrifed of owls. Hated them worse that pigeons. An owl had flown down the chimney once, back on Privet Drive, and burned to cinders in the fireplace. The house had smelled horrible and Aunt Petunia had fainted. Uncle Vernon made him douse the fire and take the bird’s remains to the rubbish bin at the end of the driveway. Harry had given the poor thing a little burial in the garden, though.

So no. Not the Dursleys, then. But who?

He unrolled the parchment uneasily and read it. Then he rolled it back up and looked at the bird. “Er—well, I’ve gotten the message. Twelve.”

The bird looked at him snottily.

“Dismissed?”

The bird gave Harry a very dirty look and flew away.

Harry sighed, ran his hand through his hair, and regarded the letter.

It was a shame, really. All his life he had looked forward to his first letter, to the first sign that someone cared enough about him to buy a stamp and an envelope and write him a note and send it off. To the first time someone would know him well enough to write his name on the envelope—Harry James Potter—and send him good news.
It was such a horrible letter, for his first one. He sighed and unrolled it once more, scanning it again.

It didn’t even have his name on the cover, just ‘S1—Potter’. The inside was sort of like a form—to the point and exceedingly nasty. It informed him of his times for detention, the first of which was to be that very day at noon, and at the bottom was Professor Snape’s spiky signature.

It scared Harry, the amount of malice that the man could inject even into his name.

Harry reached under his pillow, picked up his wand, and frowned at it. He obviously shouldn’t bring it with him, not after the way Snape had tried to get it off him in Potions. But if he left it in the dorm anyone could get it—Malfoy or Zabini or even Snape, if he got angry enough to look. So he clearly couldn’t leave it there.

He tapped it absent-mindedly on the pillow. Where could he leave it? Not in some abandoned cubbyhole in the dungeons—they too were Snape’s territory, and the man would probably hunt it out. It would have to be somewhere no one would suspect.

Hermione.

Harry inwardly grinned at the idea. Perfect. He poked his head cautiously out of the bed curtains and saw Teddy still sprawled facedown on his bed, like he normally slept. The alarm clock on his bedside clearly read ‘DISGUSTINGLY EARLY’.

He took a quick shower, tried to brush his hair, successfully brushed his teeth, and read the next four chapters of his Potions book before heading to breakfast.

Harry was not normally an early riser. He wasn’t a deep sleeper, really—Aunt Petunia had never allowed that. He liked to sleep, and he was very good at making himself fall asleep, but how he woke up was entirely up to fate. Most times something little woke him up—a growing cold because his blankets had fallen on the floor, him smacking his head on the headboard, funny noises coming from the walls. Back at the Dursleys it had always been Aunt Petunia to wake him and let him out of the cupboard. Sometimes they locked him in, but not normally, so some mornings he woke up really early because the furnace in the basement made that loud popping noise and he was just sitting there in his cupboard for an hour before he could make breakfast. He liked that time of day—just in there, not expected to do anything or please anybody, just relax and breathe and not have to think or worry or be angry. Just be able to be blank.

He’d always woken early at Hogwarts. Well, so far. His inner clock kept waking him at the same time, disgustingly early, and then he could shower and read and go down to breakfast. It was nice to have a little bit of time to forget, to pretend he wasn’t being held against his will or scared or angry. To just let that all go and read his school books and lie back. If he hadn’t been kidnapped, he thought he might feel that way all the time. He had to admit it—he liked parts of Hogwarts. But he wouldn’t stay. He couldn’t stay. It was just too dangerous.

After a sufficient amount of time passed, he collected his book and slipped out of the dorm. Not really many other people were up, though Terry Higgs grunted at him as he left the common room and made his way to the Great Hall. There was only a smattering of students there, Harry saw, and Hermione wasn’t among them. He settled in to the Slytherin table to wait. He had a prefered spot—down by the end, where the upper students made the first years sit, but almost against a wall. He scanned the head table and noted that Snape didn’t seem to have made an appearance yet. Good.

He started to work through his book—Potions, of course. He intended to finish the whole thing before he had his next class, and be ready. Who knew what kind of questions Snape would ask next time? So he underlined important parts and took messy notes on a grubby bit of parchment he kept tucked in his trouser pocket at all times. He had taken to taking it out and memorizing a few facts whenever he was waiting somewhere. He’d started it at dinner the night previously.

There was a small, barely audible pop and a platter of bacon appeared right in front of him. Harry almost dropped his book in surprise. He had gotten used to the meals appearing and disappearing (and had wondered if there were any scruffy eleven year olds in the kitchen below making bacon, which was where he truly wanted to be). But never before had they made any sound, or done it right in front of him. Harry looked at the plate warily, then looked around the room.

At the head table, Dumbledore was looking at him with a kindly smile, his hands folded and all his attention on Harry.

It gave Harry the creeps.

He moved the platter of bacon away quickly, pushing it down and resuming his book. There was another, louder pop, and this time he found that a bowl of porridge had appeared and the corner of his book now had porridge and cinnamon smeared over the bottom corner.

Harry pushed the bowl away and watched his plate. There was another pop and a new bowl appeared, this filled with a popular brand of Muggle cereal Dudley had eaten and Harry had always wanted to try.

He moved down a seat. The bowl followed him.

Harry was getting a little worried. No one had been this eager to feed him anything since Madame Pomfrey had all but shoved food down his throat in the infirmary. At least she would take a few bites of it first to reassure him. He thought desperately back over the week, wondering if he had done anything so terrible that the headmaster would want him to eat that badly. The only thing that came to mind was his classroom fight with Snape.

Suddenly Harry felt a bit queasy. He pushed the bowl back, and when it tried to hop forward he lifted it and dumped the contents upside-down into the porridge bowl with a plop.

He looked back at the head table. Dumbledore was frowning at him.

Harry pulled together his book and his grubby piece of parchment and checked his pockets to make sure his wand was still there. Then, without looking at anything but the floor he walked on, he hurried out of the hall. He would wait for Hermione somewhere else. He thought he saw Dumbledore stand out of the corner of his eye, so once he left the hall he broke into a run, taking the stairways up again as he hoped he wasn’t being followed. That was what he didn’t like about magic. It had so many nasty possibilities he couldn’t possibly know.

He was toying with the idea of seeing if the library was open when he ran into Professor McGonnagal again in much the same manner as yesterday. Harry’s book flew out of his hand and he fell backwards, thankfully onto a stair landing, cracking his arm on the floor and knocking his glasses askew. He felt as though he might be ill.

Professor McGonnagal at first seemed concerned about him. “Mr. Potter? Are you all right?”

She made as if to help him up but he did it himself, pushing himself up and as far away from McGonnagal as the space would permit. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I—I forgot about not running, I’m—please don’t tell Professor Sna—“

“Mr. Potter, please, calm down.” The woman looked a bit worried but tried to smile at him. “Are you all right? That was a nasty fall.”

Harry felt his arm start to throb. “I’m fine, miss, I’m really sorry about running—“

“Mr. Potter, it’s fine. Please, calm down.”

Harry didn’t know why she was saying that. He was perfectly calm. Well, he was as calm as he could be when Dumbledore could be coming behind him any second with food, or with Snape, or—or something worse. He wasn’t bothered about the fall, really, he’d had worse ones, but he was worried about getting another detention.

“I—Sorry.” Harry regarded her warily. She looked at him. He felt distinctly uncomfortable and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I really am, please don’t give me a detention.”

The professor frowned at him again. “It’s rather early to be running around the castle, isn’t it, Mr. Potter? Shouldn’t you be at breakfast?”

Harry wrapped his hands in the sleeves of his robes carefully. “I—I’m not hungry, miss.”

She looked at his thin frame. “Hm. You should try to eat anyway, probably, Mr. Potter. Some children do find the transition difficult, but magic takes quite a lot out of you.”

Harry nodded quickly. “I’ll try and, er, eat more, miss.” He couldn’t believe she was talking about his dietary habits instead of his flagrant breaking of the rules, especially after the warning yesterday.

McGonnagal seemed to be able to tell he wass lying. Her lips narrowed. “I mean that, Mr. Potter. I won’t have you hurting the other students with an inability to control your magic.”

Harry ducked his head and stared at the floor and thought about being unable to control his magic around Snape. He hoped the man’s head exploded. “Yes, miss.”

She gave him another long look, than started to head down the stairs. She stopped after a moment, realizing that Harry wasn’t following her.

“Well?”

Harry looked at her in surprise. “What—you mean I have to eat now?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter, we just went through this.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, then remembered the lingering threat. Even if she deducted points, Snape would find out. That’s how he’d gotten one of his—Quirrell docking points from his messy sleeves. He nodded slowly. “Er—all right, then.”

He walked slowly, hoping the woman would lose interest, but she stayed next to him the whole time. He felt her watching him as he walked next to her, as he plodded over to the Slytherin table and sat himself down. The porridge bowl filled with cereal was still there, and where he had been sitting was a plate heaped high with eggs and bacon and toast.

Harry pushed it away from him weakly, then put his head down on the table and tried to breathe deep. From above him, McGonagall spoke and Harry jumped at the sound.

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Potter?”

Harry felt like bursting into laughter. Of course he wasn’t all right. He had been taken against his will from a damp and drippy hut on a rock and plopped into a world where there were jumping porridge bowls and foggy heads and Snape, who scared him more than anything. He was anything but all right, and he toyed for a moment with telling her that.

Instead, he just nodded. “Yes, miss.”

She frowned at him. “I know I am not your head of house,” she said delicately. “But if you ever need to talk, Mr. Potter—“

“I won’t need a talk, Professor, honest—“

She frowned at him. “Are you uncomfortable with your head of house?”

The laughter bubbled up again. Of course he was. “No, miss.” No way would he tell her anything, unless… “Could I switch houses? Is that allowed?”

McGonnagal suddenly looked sympathetic and understanding. She patted Harry gently on the shoulder. “Your parents would be proud of you no matter what house you were in.”

What? That hadn’t been what he’d asked. He’d barely thought about his parents since he’d arrived, except for the usual vague missing. What had his parents to do with anything?

McGonnagal continued. “Some people do put a rather high stress on house pride, especially here at the school, but once people leave and grow up it gets less important. Your parents would have loved you no matter what—they wouldn’t care you weren’t a Gryffindor.”

Harry felt his heart drop unexpectedly. The only reason she could be saying this—oh. His parents were Gryffindors, then. Gryffindors, who hated Slytherins.

“You are still a remarkable boy, Mr. Potter, and still very much their son. You were put in Slytherin because you belong there.”

His parents would have hated him. That must be the reason she was reassuring him so vehemently, they would have hated him with a passion and never wanted to talk to him. A little piece of him, near where his trust used to be, snapped off and fell with all the dreams he used to have of his parents being alive. Even if they were, they wouldn’t want him. Like that was new. Who would ever want stupid Harry Potter with his stupid hair and his stupid glasses? No one. Never.

“Switching is impossible, Mr. Potter. The Sorting Hat does its sorting, and we are left to figure out the reasons for ourselves.”

“Oh. Well, er, thanks. Miss.” McGonnagal scrutinised him, then stood.

“I want you to get something to eat, Mr. Potter, and then perhaps rest. You look worn out.”

“Yes, miss.” Of course, he hadn’t rested properly in weeks, and he doubted anything would happen today, what with Snape’s detention later. He watched as McGonnagal moved to the head table and saw Dumbledore looking in his direction again. A bowl started to bump against his arm insistently.

Luckily, Hermione entered the hall that moment and saw him. She walked over briskly and sat down, her eyes widening at the warzone of food that surrounded Harry.

“What happened?”

“I—I wasn’t hungry.”

Hermione pursed her lips and regarded the food. “What do you want to eat?”

Harry’s stomach had shrunk to the size of a pea. He shook his head. “I’m really not hungry.”

Hermione took a piece of toast and bit into the edge, then held it out to him.

“You need to eat something. Magic can be very taxing, you know, that’s what I’ve read.”

Harry swallowed down that laughter again and accepted the toast, nibbling along the sides as Hermione talked about what she thought they should research that day.

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Harry and Hermione spent the whole morning in the library. Harry had buried himself into his potions text while Hermione went into raptures over all the wonderful charm books she was finding. They took a break in their reading to explore the back of the library, which Harry liked best. He found hundreds of books, more books than he knew existed. He spent a relaxing few hours there, reading and researching, when Harry checked Hermione’s watch and saw it was eleven-forty-eight.

He promptly jumped up, shoved his wand into Hermione’s hand, and ran as fast as he could to the dungeons. He skidded in front of the door and wondered how long that run of his had taken. Five minutes? Ten? Was he early, or late, or on time? He looked at the door as if it could provide him with answers. And it did.

The door swung open, and an angry looking Snape appeared.

“Potter. Do you need an invitation? Get in here!”

Harry darted past the man and into the room, his hands wrapped in his sleeves to hide their shaking.

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It started out well enough, he supposed, for a detention with Potter. The brat was on time, and once he was told to scrub cauldrons he’d set himself to the task intently. He was jumpy, though, and Severus took to aiming his wand on the wall behind Potter and setting off bangs and booms and other little noises. Every time the boy yelped, jumped, and threw his hands over his head. Then, after a moment, without looking at Snape, he’d return to his work until the boy’s mere presence annoyed Severus again and he’d make another noise.

It was satisfying, yes. Not nearly enough to compensate for the loss of a wand, no, but enough for all the minor irritation and annoyance the boy had caused. When the bangs were no longer enough, he allowed Potter to finish the cauldron he was working on (his eighth, he was a productive bugger), then stood and cleared his throat.

That led to a far more entertaining reaction. Potter, who was in the middle of reaching for the next cauldron, froze. His shoulders tightened, and Snape could see his hand, frozen midair, start to shake. Perfect.

“That’s enough of that, Potter. Get up.”

The boy rose slowly, his eyes fixed warily on Snape’s feet. “Wh—Am I done?”

Snape snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. You haven’t even begun.”

The look that flashed in the boy’s eyes—that was the sort of satisfying he needed. Snape allowed his mouth to curl into what he personally knew was a terrifying smile.

Harry was terrified. He wrapped his sleeves around his hands once more, then swallowed and tried to straighten his shoulders. He ducked his head and stared at the floor.

“Not very brave, are you, Potter?”

Harry didn’t say a word. He knew this tactic. Was that all that was going to happen now? Snape would try to tear him down and Harry would ignore him, just like Uncle Vernon? He hoped so. He could handle that, he thought.

“I suppose that’s the reason Slytherin is saddled with you. Too stupid for Ravenclaw, too spineless for Gryffindor—god only knows why you’re not a Hufflepuff, but I’m sure you’re just not hardworking enough. Pity, that Slytherin house is stuck with someone like you.”

Harry licked his lips and mumbled “P-pity I’m stuck with someplace like Slytherin house.”

He could feel Snape’s gaze sharpen and he mentally kicked himself. Stupid! He always did that with Uncle Vernon, too, he could never keep his stupid mouth shut and he just made everything worse. He bit his lip.

“Oh, that’s right. Little Mr. Potter wanted to be a Gryffindor, didn’t he?” Harry didn’t really care what house he was in, really, but he wished he was in the Dursley house most of all. “Wanted to be in the same house as your parents, hm? Well, you certainly disappointed them.”

Harry felt a little stab where his dreams used to be and he stared at the stones beneath his feet.

“They’re probably spinning in their graves right now.” Snape looked at the boy, frustrated. He wasn’t getting angry. Snape snapped at him. “Wand out, Potter.”

The boy looked up a moment, then ducked his head again. “Haven’t got it.”

Snape felt color rise to his face. “Get out your wand, Potter.”

Harry looked up again. “I haven’t got it! I knew you’d—you’d try to do something, so I left it.”

Snape felt a burst of glee in his gut. “You forgo your right to use it, then.” Harry opened his mouth to ask what that meant, but Snape had whipped his own wand out and Harry’s mouth clicked shut quickly. “Legilimens!”